


the innocence slips away

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Toxic Work Environment, not as much sad as it is angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: Perhaps it's down to Ferrari's influence, but Charles sees red more often than not these days.





	the innocence slips away

**Author's Note:**

> wowowow,  
this is....different than anything ive ever written. almost a bit of a character study. its angry and emotional and there is no happy ending in sight. its a bit of a vent thing, i know everyone probably would rather have an update for "take a picture" but ive been really going thru it lately alone so writing anything thats not unhappy is kind of hard, but i promise ill publish that as soon as i can.  
as always, please dont post elsewhere without my permission, this is a work of fiction, blah blah blah.  
title is from "time stand still" by rush

It's cutthroat, the life they live. Performance is everything, and if you're not the best, you're nobody. Charles knows this, has known it since long before he even set foot in a single seater, back when he was running a kart around a track.

It didn't use to take much space up in his mind. Really, performance is important, but there's only so much you can do with the equipment you're given, and he did what he could with the Alfa. Sure, he could've been better through a corner here and there, and even sometimes he could admit immature risktaking, but it didn't matter so much in the midfield. 

In Ferrari, everything is different. Sebastian is fast, the car is fast, Charles has to be fast. There is no room for error- when they happen, it becomes his job to disect the issue, pull the problem apart along with himself, find something to fix or improve. They call him too self critical, say he's too hard on himself- Charles knows better. He's hungry, his ambition is burning a hole in his abdomen, he's going to do what it takes to be the best.

Perhaps it's down to Ferrari's influence, but Charles sees red more often than not these days. Friends become rivals, practices become proving grounds. He pushes, sometimes too hard, wants any last tenth he can get even if it's at the expense of another. Charles thinks that Max is maybe the only one on the grid who can match him for pure, raging ambition and youthful talent- and Charles hates him for it, hates how his greatest competition has years on him in experience and virtually nothing in age, uses that hate to go even further.

The cruelty on track develops over time- Charles watches himself get stepped on, sees the stewards let flagrant offenses pass by scot-free, and forces himself into those gaps. Monza is a show of power, of his desire and passion. Lewis may bitch to the media about how dirty of a racer Charles has become, but it's okay- the Monegasque will put on his happiest face to the media, will smile and say its racing and send the fans swooning. It doesn't matter- he's gotten his first taste of the top step of the podium, is ever hungry for more.

Charles loves Pierre, and when they're far enough from the world of F1, he even swears he'd do anything for the Frenchman. It's when they're near a track or a factory or any semblance of a competition that Charles loves Pierre less.

It's not that Pierre is particularly hard competition for Charles- he's a smooth driver, looks like he could direct a car through advanced ballet, but lacks any meaningful aggressiveness to challenge Charles- and that's what kills Charles, makes him feel at war with himself, both bitter and smugly pleased. A deep shame pools within him- this is his best friend, his soul mate, but sometimes he looks at Pierre and sees passiveness and feels mildly disgusted. They usually don't talk about it, just let the tension build and build as Charles pushes himself harder and harder, loses more of his personality like he's shedding kilos, cuts tenths off his lap times and wins not once, but two times in a row, and Pierre slips further down the time tables, his future in F1 becoming less of a guarantee and more of an unlikely hope.

However, it's Pierre who lights the first match that sets things ablaze. The hotel in Italy is ornately appointed, and Pierre sets his steely gaze on the first place trophy set on the desk in front of him as Charles chucks off his red Ferrari polo and digs through the luggage haphazardly strewn next to the bed in search of something more suitable to wear for a night out. He's complaining about Lewis, about Sebastian, about himself, about how the race could have been even better, should have been even better. Something crawls under Pierre's skin, watching Charles tear apart everything as if he didn't have one of the most coveted seats in the sport and wasn't winning in it.

"Charles," he starts, still looking mostly at the glimmering trophy in front of him, "Did you already forget you won?" he complains, absentmindedly toying with the bracelets around his wrist. He loves Charles, he really does, but sometimes his needless pity parties are just annoying.

Charles scoffs, pulls a wrinkled blue T-shirt over his chest, and moves closer to the massive mirror opposite his bed to fuss over his hair. "Of course not, Pierre, but just because I won doesn't mean that it's enough. I want to beat them, I need to push harder," he says, but it comes out sounding patronizing, only annoys Pierre further.

"You know," the Frenchman starts, spins the desk chair he's in around so he can look at Charles, "not everything is about winning. Besides, you've just won two races in a row, it's obviously not the end of the world for you, or Ferrari for that matter." He shakes his head, the irritation and edge of bitterness in his voice thinly veiled. "Stop complaining and just be grateful for once."

Pierre's words hit Charles like a tire barrier- they're uncharacteristically blunt and harsh for the usually kind Frenchman, and they piss Charles off more than he cares to admit. _Of course Pierre is going to make this his own pity party,_ he thinks, even if he's done the same thing to the former at least a dozen times before. Charles has a right to want more, should want more. He's not Pierre, not capable of sitting down and taking the hits and letting his own life crumble, and in that moment he swears he never will be.

"_Excusez-moi_?" Charles says, turns away from the mirror and glares at Pierre, pale eyes lit with fire. "Some of us actually want to beat Lewis, and not have to worry about our fucking seats getting handed to someone with less than a year of experience. Some of us want to stay in the sport. Some of us actually have ambitions, Pierre!" he says, voice gradually increasing in volume to the point where he's nearly yelling at the end.

Charles knows he's crossed a line almost immediately when Pierre's face falls, and he sits as stiff and still as a plank as Charles words turn the gears in his head. His face is decidedly neutral, but he won't make eye contact with the Monegasque even as what seems like hours of silence pass in only a moment's time.

"So that's what you think of me," Pierre whispers, voice tinged with a sort of sad resignation and barely audible to Charles across the room, and God damn does he feel bad now, but Pierre's features just harden as he stands up abruptly, moves to close the gap between the two and jams his finger into Charles's sternum.

"I cannot believe you. Was our- were, were we a fucking joke to you?" he stutters, voice laced with a repressed sort of rage that almost scares Charles- he's never, ever seen Pierre mad like this. "Am I just a joke to you? Just another unmotivated, burnt out midfield driver for you to have to lap, right? Poor little me, just uselessly filling a seat someone more talented could have, right? I'm just some sort of lesson in failure to you, huh?"

Pierre's breathing is quick and uneven, and it sparks something like worry in Charles heart. He wants to reach out, touch Pierre, cradle his face and kiss the hurt away but he can't because he is the cause. He composes himself, does his best to stay calm even if his head his screaming at him to _stop, apologize, don't do this to the best person in your life._

"I want to win," Charles says cooly, grabs Pierre's wrist and forces his hand off, "You can drive your own races for your own reasons, and if you're happy with that, I am too," he says, closes even more of the gap between them to their chests are practically touching, "but I am here to win, not waste time, and I will do whatever it takes." Charles pushes Pierre back against the mirror and desperately connects their lips like he didn't just find a vague way to tell Pierre that he's a disappointment.

Pierre freezes, doesn't move to kiss back for a moment- and in the very next he's shoving Charles off of him, anger and pain both collectively fueling his strength.

"No," he says when Charles looks at him, half ashamed and half startled, "no, no, no. Charles, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

Charles at least has the decency to not answer, but he reaches out to grab Pierre's hand like that's somehow a worthwhile apology. The latter yanks his hand away, looks disgusted.

"You don't get to do that to me, you-" Pierre starts, runs a frantic hand through his hair and makes unwavering eye contact, "you're just like Esteban now." He spits coldly, and for the first time Charles can see tears in Pierre's eyes. 

Charles feels awful, absolutely disgusted with himself. The champagne buzz has run dry, and now in his hotel room, finally free from the influence of Ferrari, Charles has stopped seeing red.

It's too little, too late. Pierre has already made strides to the exit of the hotel room. His hand is on the doorknob, and all he can manage is to glance back at Charles, looking absolutely distraught.

"I hope you can keep winning, Charles. For your own sake," Pierre says, voice trembling a little as he shakes his head, and Charles finally has the sense to approach the Frenchman, but before he gets the chance Pierre has slipped out the door and into the dim lights of the hallway.

Charles stands alone in the entryway of his hotel room, with only the glaring trophy sitting on the desk there to comfort him.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this far. any and all feedback is always appreciated, seriously when i read comments it makes my day, so thank you guys for that.


End file.
